Everything All of the Time
by sketchnurse
Summary: "She's halfway around the world, halfway around her head. Living in silence, speaking only the things that are supposed to mean everything." A piece about Booth and Brennan and where they are now. Title taken from Radiohead's song Idioteque.


**Not entirely sure what this is, but it's been sitting on my desktop for quite sometime, so I figured I'd breathe some life into it and post it. Hooray. **

You live long enough, you start to wonder things.

Maybe you're going about it all wrong. Maybe life isn't a series of choices, maybe it isn't all cause and effect.

Maybe it is.

You start to question your reality. How much control you really have over things. What's you, the conscious part of yourself, the part that is internally debating with itself every second of your life, and what's your biology. Your history.

Anthropology, she's studying it; daughter of a killer, sister of a felon, friend of an artist, entomologist, psychologist, pathologist, psychiatrist turned chef, partner of a…

She doesn't think about him, in Afghanistan. It's too hard, too soft, and she's here now, so if her mind would just shut up and reorganize itself…

Warfare, he's living it; son of an abuser, brother of a reformed alcoholic, friend of an artist, entomologist, psychologist, pathologist, psychiatrist turned chef, partner of a…

He doesn't think about her, in Indonesia. Not when that's miles and miles away, and the space between them is probably the largest it's ever been. They were probably closer when they didn't know each other. Negative space.  
There are things to focus on, things that are supposed to be clearing their heads.

One step, two step, three step, and the camp seems too far away, their mouth too dry, the day too long, the sun…

Same sun, same moon, same sky, same air, same land…

The laws of physics.

And he believes you can break them, by becoming one from two.

She's been thinking, about things that have never made any sense to her before, but learning…

High learning curve, but she's been stuck on the past, her failures, why she isn't _enough_.

He comes along, and she's supposed to adapt so quickly? He comes along, and there's _something _in him that she's never seen before.

Conversion sickness, learning to live without worrying about the sky below you.

Wings.

Burdens, yes, but they allow you to fly.

We can all fly.

Metaphorically, because evolution has not allowed us to take to the sky. But it's allowed us to dream like that. Build machines for flying.

But do any of us fly for the pleasure of it? Fly because we want to feel ourselves accelerating, moving faster, wind rushing past, sun in our eyes?

We all have wings, but we're not supposed to want to go places with them.

Burdens, yes, but we're supposed to want to be up in the air, living with the fear of falling, but this is so much more than being suspended.

You can see the world this way.

Maybe that's what she's trying to do here, see the world, in a microcosm, dozens of other bodies moving around her, delegation of tasks, this here, that there, water to be replaced, food to be gather, natural resources, the spring a couple miles away…  
Breathe in, breathe out, move your limbs, move your mind away from things that aren't here, now, live like there isn't a later for you, only books for people to read, information; they've been fornicating, in the past, homo floresiensis and homo sapiens, lives now having been lead, information revealed and left out in the open, for you to interpret.

_I'm that guy._

He's that guy, with the skills and the determination and the _I love my country_ for the job, and now he's teaching _them_. Take down insurgents. Don't think about slipping, off of reality, one more statistic, heavy sealed envelope in your girl's hands… we've got nightmares for that.

He's that guy, step step step, and he's still ahead of them, step step step, trying not to sweat, dirt in every pore of him.

He's that guy, proud of everything he is and afraid of everything he shouldn't be, step step step, and it's just over that ridge, just over the precipice, he's that guy, and he's…

Not going to live like he's going to lose something, 'cause he's got everything to lose; not going to watch them from heaven, smiling like he's still down there, 'cause he's got shit to do, and it's going to get done.

He's not going to turn down her offer, like he's got a girl waiting at home for him, because numb's a boring flavour, and for once, in years, in a lifetime, he wants to _feel_ no regrets, nothing but sweaty gasps, hair pulled, and scratches, long and red and angry and there, from her nails.

Babe, you better wait up, because _she's_ getting there, and if you're going, if you're leaving this behind, if you're pretending that you were stupid and yet somehow right, then…

Half a world away, not so much, because they're closer than they think.

Not really on opposite ends of the earth.

And she turns down company, as usual, shying away from human contact, because she's speaking with the bones, and doesn't want to be disturbed.

Small talk, never one of her strengths, but she's civil, civil, civil; _civil servant_… and she's…

She thinks of him, in Afghanistan, every night, until she's certain that the feelings haven't gone away, and entropy, well; a lot can change in a year.

Six months in, and she's still wondering what the hell he's up to.

Role reversal, and neither of them are expecting it.

Both are expecting the other to be like _themselves_, the most prominent part of themselves, on the outside, one defining characteristic.

She… she's dripping with sweat, just like him, but she's stuck in sickly humidity, not hot, dry, desert.

She's supposed to be cold, rational.

_Feels_ too much.

He's supposed to be the gut, the feeling, the heart guy.

Doesn't _feel _enough?

Put yourself in a box, let the other people think what they want, because you're the only person who really knows, who really cares, what you feel, how you feel it, what happens when the dam breaks and you want to run.

Run.

Machines built for flying, but they're there to take people away, not let them enjoy where they are.

And where they were, wasn't so enjoyable.

Death used to be a natural part of life, but it's been wearing on her.

He hasn't lost count. We have. So numb to all of this, but he knows what it feels like.

He _feels_ just enough.

She's just tired.

Pain, and she's felt enough of that.

Sadness, and she's seen too much of it.

Victims, and she's known what too many of them feel.

Murders, and she's felt every break in the bone, every little thing that says humans can be cruel, cruel things.

_I hope you find something that just changes the entire notion of what it means to be human._

Discover something about the human race, Brennan; discover who they are, and why you want to be one of them.

She'd like it, to be up in the sky, looking down, no worldly worries. Anthropologist, like they're supposed to be, not involved, just observing and learning and questioning and writing down things and saying _hey! that's what people do! _She doesn't think she knows, quite yet, with all of her artifacts in shelves in her apartment and knowledge in her head, knowledge about hierarchy and mating rituals and all this and that. Useful now? Perhaps, but she still can't decipher what _she's_ thinking.

Psychology, and she's always hated it. Why him? Why her? Why _love_?

A thousand worlds away, perhaps, but there _is_ really just one world, the one they live in. Reality, but he'd rather not think about that.

He's seeing limbs, limbs and limbs and limbs, and it's no sea of bodies, and he's used to gore and decay and the smell, but limbs and limbs and limbs, all attached to men, beaten up fatigues, small smile not really there, kind of upside down, it's hard to take in without pretending that he's not taking it in.

That he's not really there.

Locking himself up in a box, broken and yet fixed haphazardly, pieces smashed together in the speed of the flight.

It'll hold, for now, when all he needs is instinct and the urge to survive.

He'll be fine, all hodge-podge, mismatch, nothing and yet everything of what he was before.

Compartments, and he's still smiling, as the day breaks and the sun rises and he remembers beauty, for the first time, last time, time running into itself because he just wants to get out of here and yet never leave ever.

He thinks of her, in Indonesia, and the feeling is slowly fading, until he's sure he's meant for everything that he's doing, and the path he's on… there's fate. No entropy, because things don't just drift apart. They're pulled apart, by hands, by jet engines, by wings folded up and forgotten, removed with painstaking precision and put in the same box as what he shouldn't be feeling anymore.

They look at him, bare chest, no hair, except for the faint line drifting down, down, down, and they've all seen _that_ too, and he's not all talk, no action.

No, Sergeant Major's got things going pretty good, hiding from the crowds, pull away, pull away, only coming out to show them why they're there and what they're supposed to be doing.

Sergeant Major, wearing his fatigues, sweat dripping, hair cut short, liked they're used to, yelling at them, 'cause he ain't their old man.

He's _his_ old man, slave master; none of them are worth it, none of them are worth anything, reminders of what could have been and what had been and what will never be.

Waking from his dream, where he had been kicking them, while they were down, no mercy, no caring, no…

He's been better, been worse, has changed, because of her, and maybe…

He thinks of her, soft hair, smiling like she's enjoying something, and he knows, he knows, that she _does_ enjoy things. She does _feel_ things.

Rough sand, on his face, as the wind blows it, and maybe the pain's good, maybe the pain's bad, but this constant supposed to feel, supposed to not feel is contributing to his lack of sleep, and this…

.

Like tear drops, though not for sadness but gravity, the rain falls off of the foliage, and onto her. The heaviness, the solidness of the rain, wakes her up to something. Like the weather, misty and insubstantial and floating through everything, coating it lightly enough to be noticed but not enough to be felt properly, Brennan had been, but no more, not with this change.

Some people feel the entropy; some people choose to pretend their bubble is impenetrable and unalterable. And there are moments that some can pass by without feeling anything, while others know exactly what is different. And what the change means.

She is a scientist, she knows entropy. She knows the laws of her existence.

Or does she?

There are five senses.

She can see the trees blowing in the wind just at the edge of the horizon. She can hear the snaps of branches as their expedition for higher ground clashes with the local flora. She can smell the woodsmoke sticking to her clothing. She can taste the salt, the indecisive flavour of a tropical storm. She can feel everything passing through her fingers as she examines it. Genetic traits. Evolution.

When God's country is Earth… a group of people search for truth among the ruins of early humanity, and look for validation in their beginnings. Some have nothing wrong with them but an excessive desire for knowledge, to the point of self-destruction, and some are lost within themselves, and the walls they are now stumbling over.

Which ones to rebuild, which ones to throw back into the ether?

Monsoon season, and their tents are secure as they can make them. Their world will shrink as the sea rises.

Their world will grow larger, as they start to realize that truth isn't happiness.

Is justice more important than truth?

The soil here is different. A headier scent, a thicker feel, a darker colour, a softer sound.

She tastes it in her mouth, when she falls over and lands in it. And the rain is still more solid, dropping on her.

_This is real._

You have one life that is guaranteed. The rest is up to the things that science cannot tell us about.

There are five senses, and none of them are telling her why she cannot take murder and victims and sadness and pain anymore.

Written in the bone, written in the mud that covers her rubber boots, life beats down on the ones who live it, and her only duty…

A scientist, not a lover.

Acting on facts, empirical evidence.

Is justice more worthy than truth?

She knows good people do not always get good things. The way your life goes does not depend on the morality of your character.

Chance, change, entropy…

She knows the name of the insect that had just flown into her mouth.

She hears _I love you too _in the back of her head.

She is here now, not where she had been five months ago. She's halfway around the world, halfway around her head. Living in silence, speaking only the things that are supposed to mean everything.

November in the Maluku Islands isn't much different from July in the Maluku Islands. Almost touching the equator, almost touching the middle of the Earth. The temperature stays almost the same. She's felt hotter, colder, less static and more dynamic. It's almost monotonous, except for the constant stream of…

This is the life she leads.

The things she experiences, the new things that fly at her before she can swerve and avoid them, they're all…

Ephemeral.

She remembers this now, with the rain, with the falling of the droplets off of the trees, off of her, onto the ground. Mist had confused her, but rain, now that was something she could understand.

Kisses in the rain end, kisses lasting five steamboats end, kisses because he wanted _more_ end.

And she will end.

Is justice more universal than truth?

She's travelled the world, sometimes only having the weight of her clothes on her back. Sometimes having the weight of the everything she's seen, everything she's lived through. People want their rights. People want what is easy. And putting a muzzle on yourself, it keeps you safe. No risks, living without disrupting. And some people claim that they want to eliminate suffering. They want to get rid of tyranny, of hatred and exploitation. Everyone wants something better. Everyone wants to feel like things are right.

Right isn't always the same for everybody, though.

She's tired of conflicts, of trying to figure out the solution to something that shouldn't have been a problem in the first place.

She's tired of needing to run, of needing to do something about the pain she had tried to eliminate from her life.

Tired. Of not sleeping. Of not living, of not being the person that everyone wants her to be.

.

The moon's the same as it's always been, waning and waxing when she just wants it to stay the same, make everything feel like it's all one big day and time isn't passing. Time's running out.

The nightmares don't stop because she's far away from him; they didn't stop when the Gravedigger was put away, and they're not going to stop now.

She tells him not to be a hero, and knows, because she knows _him_, knows who he is and who he isn't, that he's going to have a hard time listening to her.

Not much life to fight for, when the one thing that you know you need doesn't want you.

Not much life to fight for, when you're not sure what fighting is anymore, whether the fatigue you feel is from your muscles or the wear this is all having on your mind.

Thinking that maybe he's been deluding himself, all of this time, that maybe there was something that he was meant to do, and this was it, he steps back into line with the other men, and he's back, where he was, orders and orders and people telling him what needs to be done.

Maybe he's not so rebellious; maybe he's rebelling against _her_, against everything she's done to him.

Stepping back into line, into subordination, and maybe he's useless to some people, to people like her, and the absolute necessity for others.

'Cause if he's the only hope, for these men, out here, fresh out of wherever the hell they came from, then there's got to be something wrong with the Army.

Not that he'd think that, because it's blind faith time, his government is perfect, just like his country.

And he's finding pleasure, excitement, in the little things that he gives himself, at the beginning, when it's slow and almost summer.  
He finds pleasure in the fact that maybe, just maybe the Flyers are going to win the Stanley Cup this year, and maybe it's a good thing that he's the only true Flyers fan around here. He doesn't need to bond.

Six months in, and he's not thinking about hockey, about how his team had lost, just the job, the job, the job…

No risk, no reward, and making love? That's when two people become one.

He no longer remembers that being possible, but when he's dreaming (and he doesn't always remember these dreams), that's what he's doing with her, halves of the whole coming together, all of the parts of the soul finding each other; bliss, that's what he should be looking for.

He gave her overly-solicitous advice, and she knows, she _knows_, that he loves her.

Opposite ends of the Earth, not so much, because there's this thing, that they're doing, and some would call it a dance, some would call it a waste of time, but it's what they do.

And they're going to keep on doing it, adding steps, taking out parts of it that don't seem to fit anymore, and they're going to doubt the importance of it, the magic of it.

Important, though, the closest thing to magic she'll ever find. Not that she's been looking.

Desperation, and she's thinking that maybe she can make it through the rest of the months, until she returns and he returns and everything goes back to normal/not normal, changed but God, _please_, let nothing have changed.

He had told her that they couldn't just pick up where they had left off.

What's a year?

Count all of the months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds, until you get out of the sixties and into the metric system and all you're left with is dozens of digits and no answers, no idea what you're going to look like to the other person.

Beauty, and he's remembering moments, so many damn years ago, when he had thought that getting her to love him, just a little bit, wasn't so hard.

And he doesn't even need to, now.

There's a harder task: getting her to love herself, and he can hardly help her do that, half a world away, breaking spirits and building them back up, step one, step two, taking down insurgents, Sergeant Major Seeley Joseph Booth, getting too damn old for this.

Sergeant Major Seeley Joseph Booth, trying to remember who he was and why that changed, trying to remember why on Earth he had been so content with things, thought they were so good, thought that he, his life, his everything, was so good.

And he wonders if it will ever live up to the dreams he had dared dream before, dreams that were now forbidden, and besides, there was no time to dream, here, when he had to be vigilant and on guard and…

He wants to go home, and wonders if that had even been good either.

.

They had left like they had started once, hands clasped together, and _the centre must hold, _except this time they hadn't spoken it aloud. It was there, though, important as ever, 'cause when everyone's leaving, you've got to make sure there's a reason you're pushing yourself.

Pushing this? Hell, let's leave each other, see how far this thing will stretch before it breaks?

They're each looking for answers, where they are; but they've been doing that every day of their lives. He's thinking that he needs to learn to live without the hope that one day she'll see why they _belong_ together. Maybe nothing happens eventually.

He doesn't know, that maybe they've echoed each other before, on this matter.

He's thinking that it'll be easier, for her, if he doesn't wish that things had turned out differently.

She's thinking that if she can learn enough about who she is to other people, learn enough about what her purpose is, here, life and science and entropy, that she can be someone who doesn't need to _know_.

She knows, that maybe they've echoed each other before, infinity and eventually, and hoping for the same damn thing.

She's thinking that it'll be easier, for him, if they can accept themselves, who they are alone and with the other.

Switching sides, not so much, because she's still rational and he's still the heart guy but maybe one of them wants to move on and the other wants to _try_.

Time will tell, what will happen when they're together again, same time same place at the coffee cart by the mall, and maybe they'll look different and yet achingly the same, and maybe he'll want something that he had never wanted before, maybe there'll be someone else reflecting in his eyes, maybe in hers.

Change, it isn't so bad, 'cause when things stay the same, then you're living in a three-dimensional world.

And that's all fine and dandy, when you don't want anything to happen, your life to mean more.

But _time_, time's going to tell, what she's going to say with her eyes and his eyes and their hands, and the centre that must hold.

A year, and you can work out all of the calculations, or you can think back on agony and pain and longing, but in the end it's all the same. They're going to decide something, as they always have, life being full of decisions and this way and that way and step step step.

Could be good, could be bad, but it's what will happen, and eventually? Infinity, entropy, making love, becoming one? They're all there, thrown into the mix, of who she is and who he is and who they are.

Step one, step two, step three, backwards and forwards, but there's only really one direction to go.

They can't resist the pull forever.


End file.
